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Steve can't breathe. He's lying on his belly, head bowed and arms wrapped around a pillow, feeling the muscles in his back working as he gasps and curses and shudders his way through each inhalation. Yet despite the effort, Steve's still aware of the noises he's making, raw enough that he'd be embarrassed if not for the fact that it feels so fucking good, and "God—Danny..."

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Danny just raised an eyebrow, so Steve felt compelled to keep talking, “The truth is I’m better at causing fires than fighting them, okay?” He fell onto Danny’s sofa as Danny sat behind his desk. “By the time I’d gotten the fire extinguisher and put out the fire my dinner was under three feet of foam, my hand was burned in a tick-tac-toe pattern, and I’m probably going to have to paint the kitchen ceiling to cover the smoke stains and smell. It was a crap night, is that what you wanted to hear?”